


One day at a time

by jeanniemckay



Series: One Day At A Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, Mycroft Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26407618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanniemckay/pseuds/jeanniemckay
Summary: John finally meets up with Harry at a cafe after she starts attending AA meetings, imagine his surprise when he realises she knows Mycroft and how she knows him. [Set after Reichenbach. Mentions of substance abuse]
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson
Series: One Day At A Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068812
Kudos: 18





	One day at a time

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little thing that wouldn't leave my brain, I'm sure it's been done multiple times over (and probably done a lot better) but I couldn't help think what if Mycroft was an alcoholic and he'd met Harry at AA, and this was the result. The title is a reference to the AA manta - JM

It had been months since he’d last seen Harry in person, far too long really when he thought about everything she’d been going through, but they’d just never found the time to meet up. Even before all this he’d found it hard to actually get any time to see her – since he’d come back from Afghanistan he’d either been in his therapy sessions, with Sherlock, writing blog posts, investigating cases…and then there’d been the funeral, sorting out the flat…it hadn’t exactly been an calm few years.

Finally, however, she’d been able to pin him down on a date and they’d arranged for a quick lunch together in the city. He’d spent the days leading up to it expecting it to be put off, every text he’d received, every call that came through he’d assumed she’d decided against it, but he’d been surprised each time. Even up until the last moment when he stepped out of the Tube station and back into the world of over-ground signal he’d not had any quick apologies and promises to do it again another time.

He’d walked to the café in the sunshine, the bustle of the city occurring around him and when he’d spotted his sister seated at a small table for two outside the café his heart had felt lighter than it had in months. He’d missed her; he just hadn’t realised how much.

There’d been a few moments of awkwardness to begin with, the usual questions about health, jobs and “What are you up to now?” passing between them before things began to ease. Harry had confirmed she’d started up AA meetings, that she’d been sober for six months and even without Sherlock’s powers of deduction John had known she was telling the truth. Her eyes were brighter, her skin looked less pale…everything about her looked better.

Within quarter of an hour they’d fallen back into their usual roles, the sibling banter flowing back and forth and John found himself laughing properly for the first time in…well, since Sherlock. He knew he should never have cut himself off from his loved ones, especially not his family, but in his grief it had seemed like the best thing. He hadn’t wanted to drag them down with him, so he’d done his best to disappear. If it weren’t for Greg or Mrs Hudson’s interference, he wasn’t entirely sure what would have actually happened to him.

After their sandwiches had arrived and been hastily devoured (Harry’s appetite seemingly had not been impacted by anything) John excused himself, heading to the gents. When he was finished he washed his hands, catching his reflection in the mirror and it made him pause.

Ever since Bart’s he’d tried to avoid mirrors, or just reflective surfaces in general; they’d begun to show him a man he didn’t recognise anymore. The haunted look in his eyes had begun to scare him, the lines on his face had seemed more pronounced and at times it had looked more like a mask than anything else. Now though he could begin to see the old him somewhere hidden behind the grief that still shadowed his features. There was more of him visible than there had been in the past year. It was a good start.

He dried his hands swiftly and left the bathroom, heading back to their table where Harry was still sat; as he drew nearer he could see she was talking to someone. He paused in the doorway to the terrace, his brow furrowing as he took in the tailored suit, the light hair, the umbrella. Even though the man had his back to him John knew who it had to be. Mycroft. No one else would carry an umbrella around with them in the height of summer, not even in Britain.

Why the hell was he talking to Harry? Not only that, but Harry was _smiling_. No, check that, she was laughing. They seemed to be having a pleasant conversation…which meant this probably wasn’t a first encounter, because Mycroft sure as heck didn’t illicit laughter during first meetings. Confusion, terror, maybe even a little bit of outrage but not hilarity.

There was no way he could hear their conversation, he was too far away, but he couldn’t stop his curiosity from peaking. He’d never heard even a whisper that these two might have met before, might _know_ each other. There was no reason for them to in the first place, they moved in very different circles! Mycroft was the British Government, for heaven’s sake and Harry…well, Harry was quite often between jobs that definitely didn’t involve the civil service.

John was tempted to wait until Mycroft had left before heading back to the table, but the decision was taken out of his hands when Harry glanced over and spotted him. She waved, inviting him back over to the table and he had no choice but to oblige. As he moved closer the man turned and, sure enough, Mycroft Holmes stood before him, polite surprise settling on his features.

“John! This is –“ Harry started with her introduction before John waved her off.

“Mycroft, I know.” Harry’s mouth dropped open momentarily before she snapped it shut.

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft held out a hand, but John just stared at him. He hadn’t realised how angry he still was at the elder Holmes brother until he saw him standing right in front of him.

“Is that what Mike stands for then?” Harriet asked, glancing between the two of them. John just blinked up at the politician before him, before he raised an eyebrow. Mike? Really?

“Indeed,” Mycroft lowered his hand slowly, something dark crossing his features before he turned his attention back to Harry. “Well, I shall leave you to enjoy your brother’s excellent company. It was a pleasure to see you again, Harriet. Doctor Watson.” With that he took his leave, leaving John and Harry staring after him.

When Mycroft and umbrella were out of sight John took his seat again, looking at his sister incredulously.

“How the hell do you know him?” He asked, reaching for his drink.

“We met at a meeting,” She shrugged, lifting her own water to her lips. “He’s been coming a few months. I’ve sort of taken him under my wing.”

At any other moment that image would have had John in stitches but not now. She’d met Mycroft at a meeting. He turned his head, straining to see if he could catch a glimpse of Mycroft again but there was nothing, not even a whisper.

“What sort of meeting?” He asked, as he swivelled back to face her in his chair and caught the horror on her features.

“I – John, if he hasn’t told you then I…that’s…I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it.” She waved her hand as though to erase the whole conversation, but it was too late. John knew exactly what meeting she was referring to.

She’d met Mycroft at AA.

\----

The Diogenes Club was as silent as ever, only broken by the occasional rustle of a newspaper from one of the many rooms around the building. To be honest it had always given John the creeps – he’d grown used to loud bangs and unexpected noises whilst living with Sherlock, even now he had to have something in the background in his new flat, although granted this tended to just be a radio not some fireworks or something equally daft. He just couldn’t get used to total silence.

He was guided through the gleaming, wood panelled corridors to the Strangers room by an attendant who could probably have walked right out of a Victorian novel; all sharp suits, slicked hair and haughty airs. Each time he’d come here (granted it hadn’t been often) he’d found the employees the same. They instantly set his hackles rising. He was shown into the room with a brief bow and then the door closed behind him, with a barely audible click.

A fire was roaring in the grate, despite it being a relatively warm August evening, but at least it softened some of the edges of the room. It wasn’t exactly comfy here. Not only did the silence set his teeth on edge but the décor was too harsh, too dark; it spoke of secrets, of whispers that would never extend beyond these walls.

It reminded him too much of Mycroft’s office to be honest and he’d never felt particularly easy there. Even with Sherlock sat next to him picking faults in everything from the desk position to the wallpaper it hadn’t made the place any more inviting.

John stepped further into the room, his hands clasping together behind his back as he looked around him. No matter how uncomfortable he may feel here he’d been the one to ask to meet Mycroft, he’d been the one to extend the hand of…well, not quite friendship but something similar. He hadn’t been able to get what Harry had said out of his mind.

Mycroft was an alcoholic.

It just didn’t fit with his idea of the man. He was so ordered, so put together, so…mechanical. Sherlock had proved during the course of their friendship that he had a heart, that he had emotions, that he could _love_ , but Mycroft was just so totally different. John wondered if the older man was capable of feeling… _anything_. He was impossible to read, impossible to grow close to (not that John wanted to).

It had taken him a while to actually reach out to Mycroft. He’d been angry at the man for so long after everything that happened with Moriarty and Sherlock – if Mycroft had held onto Moriarty, if he’d fought harder to keep him under arrest, or even just stood up for his brother at the end then maybe things would have been different. But he hadn’t. He’d watched, along with the rest of the world as the best detective – the best man – in the world fell.

John swallowed reflexively, trying to push those memories down. He’d learnt long ago how to create little boxes in his head, file emotions and memories away so they couldn’t affect his day to day life. It wasn’t quite a mind palace, in fact it was nowhere near. His therapist would call it unhealthy, but for John it had been the only way he could keep functioning.

The door opening behind him dragged him from his thoughts and he spun on his heels, turning round in time to see Mycroft appear in the room, looking as perfectly put together as always. His suit barely had a crease on it even though he had to have been at work today, his jacket was buttoned, a handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. The whole look, his whole presence screamed control, precision and care, but to know there was something more, something darker beneath almost made John shiver.

He’d gotten used to thinking of this man as a two-dimensional being. They’d never spent lots of time together, their conversations had never moved further than the one thing they both had in common: Sherlock, and neither of them had ever tried to change that. Deep down he’d known that there had to more to Mycroft’s character than the outwards appearance, but he’d never wanted to take the time to peel back the layers. It had been easier to think that there was nothing more complex to him than a penchant for umbrellas and the occasional cigarette.

“Doctor Watson, what an unexpected pleasure.” The words were accompanied by one of Mycroft’s trademark smiles - they always looked more like a grimace of pain to him.

“Mycroft, yeah, sorry I just thought I’d come and…say hi.” He finished lamely. They’d never exactly been close even before Sherlock’s death, but since then he’d found any sort of good natured feelings he’d had towards the eldest Holmes brother had evaporated extremely quickly. Mycroft had swiftly become the antithesis of Sherlock to him, for all his friend’s merits and kindness he’d only see Mycroft’s faults and darkness. It had made it a whole lot harder to even begin to try and repair the damage done to their acquaintance.

“And I wanted to apologise, for the other day with Harry. I didn’t mean to be so rude.” He should have just sucked up his pride and shook the man’s hand, it wouldn’t have been difficult. Then again if Harry had never mentioned these meetings, if she’d never let slip this information then he’d have carried on the same path as before. He never would have scolded himself for being impolite; he would have carried on hating Mycroft from a distance, with no thought of ever changing his opinion.

The man before him waved away his apology, the same grimace on his face and not a trace of reproach. He’d probably dealt with worse shuns than one crotchety army doctor. With that Mycroft moved around him gesturing towards the two chairs closest to the fire, before he took his own seat, brushing the creases out of his trousers as he did so.

“How is your sister, Doctor Watson? She seemed in very good health the other day, I take it you left her in the same?” John settled in the chair opposite him, watching the other man carefully. He just couldn’t reconcile his knew knowledge of Mycroft with the man before him, it just didn’t seem to fit. Yet, wasn’t that often the way? He’d been a doctor long enough to know that those with the worst problems were often those that hid them the best.

“She’s good, thanks. We hadn’t met up for a while, so it was nice to see her.” He nodded, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as his mind began to race. He’d come here for no other reason than to satisfy his own curiosity. He’d wanted to know if his suspicions had been right about Mycroft actually having a problem, or whether he’d…well, whether he’d just gone there to spy on yet another person John held dear. He really wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’m glad to hear so,” Was it his imagination or did Mycroft look a smidge uncomfortable? It wasn’t entirely obvious really; he was sat straight in the chair, his legs crossed, his hands resting on the arms of the chair and his expression was set to neutral, but there was something about his eyes. “Would you care to continue swapping pleasantries? Perhaps discuss the recent weather? Or would you prefer to discuss the true reason for your visit?” His voice was pleasant enough, but a twitch of his finger proved John’s suspicions correct. He was worried.

John pursed his lips, holding Mycroft’s gaze for a moment as he tried to think how best to phrase this. He was fairly certain Mycroft knew exactly why he was here – he might not be as showy as Sherlock had been with his deductions, but he could read people like a book, and John knew he wasn’t exactly the thickest volume.

“I didn’t realise you and Harry knew each other,” He ventured, “She said she’d met you at a meeting.” God, why did this have to be so awkward? Perhaps if they’d been anything close to friends he could have felt more comfortable doing this, but right now he felt like he was walking on eggshells. He didn’t know how far he could push this, how far Mycroft would let him go or how much he’d tell him. If this was all some elaborate hoax, some weird way of keeping an eye on him, it was unlikely that he’d be able to get a confession out of him then and there. But there was something about his reactions that seemed to hint to John that this wasn’t fake.

“She’s quite correct.” Mycroft assented, giving a small nod. His fingers rubbed against the armrest of the chair absently. “I assume you are aware of the nature of the meetings we attended as well.”

John could only nod. If this was anyone else the conversation might have been easier for him – if it were Greg, Mrs Hudson even _Donovan_ he’d have found ways to steer the topic himself but with Mycroft it was a whole other ball game.

“It didn’t take much to put two and two together. The only meetings she’s ever been to are AA, and I doubt she’ll have taken up work in a ‘minor government position’.” He replied finally after several minutes of silence had passed between them, which Mycroft hadn’t seemed to want to fill. John continued to watch him carefully, but beyond a tick or two in a finger there was no outward sign of embarrassment or discomfort. If Harry hadn’t let anything slip he never would have guessed anything was the matter. Then again he’d never exactly spent much time around the elder Holmes, how was he to know if his behaviour had been altered at all?

“And you have come here today to…check on me?” The words looked as though they felt foreign on Mycroft’s tongue.

“In a way.” John consented; this may be the most awkward conversation he’d had for a long time, but now he was stuck in he might as well just power through. He crossed his legs as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Is that okay?”

Mycroft seemed to start at the question, as though he hadn’t been expecting it. John inwardly winced at the action, maybe he should have done this a long time ago and not let his anger fester like this. He could have seen something, he could have helped somehow.

“It appears a proclivity for additions runs in our family.” Mycroft grimaced, the attempt at humour almost unfamiliar to them both. “We are none of us free from vices, Doctor Watson.”

“John. Please.” He couldn’t stand the formality any longer; Mycroft had slipped back into it after Sherlock’s funeral, when he knew that John blamed him for the loss of his friend, but this conversation was too deep for titles.

“John,” Mycroft inclined his head, “You are well aware, John, what it is to care for a sibling who has no care for themselves. Who throws themselves into the path of danger with little care for their own wellbeing. Sherlock had mentioned, on numerous occasions, of your sister’s difficulties and her many attempts at pulling herself back from her addition. As I am sure you can understand, it piqued my interest, perhaps even my sensibilities.

I had intended for Sherlock to speak with you on the matter, but circumstances arose which meant…” Mycroft trailed off and for a moment, just a split second, John thought he could register a look of pain flash across his features, but it was gone before he could be sure. “I believed if I could save you some of the horror my family have suffered over Sherlock’s indiscretions, it would be of some use. Naturally I have failed in some aspects.”

John blinked, slightly taken aback at the idea that Mycroft had cared. Whether the overarching idea had been to keep John happy to in turn keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow, he couldn’t be sure but the sentiment behind it was… surprisingly nice.

“I was in correspondence with Harriet’s medical professionals for quite some time and, eventually, was able to get her assigned to a private programme I had dealt with in previous years. Only when she had accepted that help was required, of course.” At that John sat a little straighter in his chair; as if reading his thoughts the other man continued quickly, “I assure you, I had no intention of following her there myself. It was several months later that I attended a meeting again and until I had passed through the door it had quite slipped my mind.”

The tension which had rolled up John’s spine settled slightly. Ever since Harry had mentioned that she knew Mycroft he’d been wondering if this had been some elaborate way of keeping an eye on him or his family. It wasn’t entirely out of the question for Mycroft to assign surveillance to him, and whilst putting someone on his sister might be going a little far it wasn’t an entirely stupid idea.

“I believe you still quite overestimate my influence within the security services, John,” Just like Sherlock, Mycroft had the irritating ability to seem to read minds, “Also my willingness to indulge in _leg work_ ,” The other man’s nose wrinkled at the last words, as though they left a nasty taste behind them, “I can assure you that if I had the power or inclination to place surveillance on your sister I would certainly not be doing it myself.”

John couldn’t help it, he couldn’t hold it back, he actually grinned. Not a small, fleeting flash of a smile as he’d been so used to giving since Bart’s, but an actual God’s honest grin. For a second it seemed to catch Mycroft by surprise, as though he hadn’t quite expected his attempts at lightening the conversation to work, before he returned the smile tightly.

A companionable silence fell between them. Some of the earlier awkwardness and tension had left them, but as John’s smile began to fade he realised that they were really nowhere near the real heart of this conversation. He had no real idea how far he could push this, or how far Mycroft would actually let him get, but he had to at least try.

“Harry said you’d only been coming a few months, but if you’d attended before then this wasn’t the first time this had happened,” He ventured once Mycroft had turned his head to watch the fire crackling beside them. He saw the politician bob his head in agreement, “Was it…everything with Sherlock, did that cause –“

“Me to “fall of the wagon” as the saying goes?” Mycroft interrupted, “Not entirely. I believe I had slipped before I had the pleasure of Jim Moriarty’s company. I failed to realise the true extent of the damage until it was…discussed with me by a…friend.” Again the word seemed to sound and taste foreign to him as his brow furrowed as he finished speaking.

John couldn’t help it when his curiosity peaked at the idea of Mycroft not only having a friend, but also someone who had known and confronted him about something so sensitive. As he himself had never noticed any change in Mycroft’s attitude or demeanour (and he’d done plenty of training on alcohol abuse) the person who’d brought this up with him had to be pretty damn close to him. The man was clearly a high-functioning alcoholic, there’d never been the smallest whisper of a problem when they’d ever met before.

“Did Sherlock know?” He asked finally, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as his friend’s name left his lips, just as it always did. Even after all this time it still hurt. He knew it’d take time – his therapist had told him this over and over again, and he’d done enough courses on bereavement himself too, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Mycroft seemed to consider the question for a moment, his fingers tapped a gentle rhythm on the arm of the chair.

“No. At least not as far as I am aware,” He conceded with a slight tilt of his head, “I am sure if he had wished to know he would have done, but Sherlock is – was adept at ignoring that which did not suit him.” The mishap caused another painful twist in John’s gut, but the look on Mycroft’s face told him that that it wasn’t only he who’d felt it. “I certainly never spoke to him of it. Before my more recent slip I had been sober for quite some time, and I did not believe that Sherlock knowing of my own past…indiscretions would help when convincing him to give up his narcotics.”

That certainly made sense. He could well imagine that had Sherlock openly known that Mycroft had struggled with his own addiction it would have made it a lot more difficult for the elder brother to convince his sibling to do anything. Sherlock might have been his best friend but even John could admit he had plenty of faults, and he knew that Sherlock would have taken any sign of weakness in Mycroft and run with it.

“I had no idea,” John replied, “If I’d realised something was up maybe I could have helped.”

“John, the entire point was for you _not_ to notice. If Harriet had not spotted me in the street, had I not spent too long speaking with her, you would have remained blissfully unaware.” And he probably would have done too. He’d never have made the effort to come out and see Mycroft if he hadn’t seen him the other day. He’d have continued avoiding him (although it wasn’t technically avoiding since they didn’t exactly run in the same circles) and would never have known any different.

“I would appreciate it, Doctor Watson.” He looked up at the slip back into formalities, “If you did not mention this to anyone else. I am sure you are aware that should this become public it would have…damaging consequences. The support group we attend is very private, I chose it for both myself and your sister for a reason.”

“Why would I -” John stopped himself, clamping down on the anger that flared at the idea that he would just go about blabbing to everyone and anyone about this. “Of course I won’t.” He finished tersely, earning a frown from the other man.

“I don’t mean to infer anything about your character, John, I am well aware you are one of the most trustworthy men of my acquaintance, but you will understand my position, I’m sure. I’m not accustomed to people knowing my…secrets. I have worked hard to try and keep them hidden and should my mother find out –“

“Wait…you were worried I was going to tell your Mum?” John stared at him incredulously. He’d assumed that Mycroft was worried about, you know, maybe some international terrorist gang about it in case they came to try and kidnap him and force feed him gin. Not that John knew any international terrorists, obviously.

“Well of course…Mummy would be extremely concerned if she were to find out.” The look of confusion on Mycroft’s face was almost priceless. Not to mention the fact that by the sounds of it he ranked his mother finding out as more damaging than…well, international terrorists.

“I – yeah, of course. She won’t hear anything about it from me.” It was difficult to stop the laughter that was bubbling up inside him but with a monumental effort he managed.

They stayed sat together for a while longer, exchanging the odd bit of inane chatter before Mycroft glanced at his pocket watch pointedly. John took the hint and stood, stepping forwards with an outstretched hand. Mycroft stared at it for a moment, once again seemingly surprised at the gesture, before he stood too and took it.

“Look I know we’ve not –“ John broke off, “I know we’ve not talked a lot recently, but if you need to. You know, if you want to, you _can_ talk to me.” Mycroft’s eyes scanned his face, as though looking for a punchline but none came, instead he simply nodded, shooting John a swift smile before he withdrew his hand.

“Thank you, John. The offer is, of course, reciprocated.”

**Author's Note:**

> The 'friend' he mentions, in my mind, is Greg (because my Mystrade goggles are on right now) but if you want to imagine anyone else feel free!


End file.
